Stockholm Syndrom: A Possible Fairytale
by destructo doll
Summary: Just another twisted lisaXjackson not quite love story. Feedback appreciated! Work in progress.
1. Death and Other Comforts

PAIRING:Jackson/Lisa  
SUMMARY: A year isn't too long to be obsessing over your hostage/captor, is it?  
RATING: Hard R.  
DISCLAIMER: I own the story, the plot, and my brain.  
COMMON SENSE WARNING: It usually doesn't take only a year to repair major damages on a hotel and especially not to build a complete underground assassination business, but any longer than that just seems way too long for the two to still be obsessing over one another. I know it's not realistic, but this is also a story, where it doesn't have to be. ;)  
REVIEWS: I'd appreciate your candid opinion of this work. 

Stockholm Syndrome: A Possible Fairytale  
**Chapter One: Death and Other Comforts**

Tendrils of smoke wafted up across Jackson's troubled countenance through full lips and golden bangs, a habit he'd undoubtedly picked up from his father, whoever he was. The dimly-lit lamp sensuously played with the dispersing smoke and he gazed in fascination as the grey creations faded to nothing.

In the blurry file cabinet of his mind, he was still holding Lisa against the wall in the plane's lavatory, his grip tightening around her neck. Her soft eyes brimmed with tears and just as quickly she blinked them away, sputtering "you don't have to do this."

No, he didn't.  
But that was what he'd chosen to do.

He should've taken her.

Those were his thoughts as a finger gently traced small, warm circles over Isabella's collarbone. The raven-haired beauty stiffened under his touch, whispering "you're perfect" in a waspish pant into his ear. So easy was the woman in his arms, dressed in a cream-colored silken nightgown that ended inches above her knees, knees that had not long ago been closing around his body as it rocked forwards into hers with a harsh slapping sound. A waterfall of dark brown, tousled hair cascaded gently over her shoulders, only a little longer than Lisa's and not nearly as nice wrapped around his fingers.

_"I never lied to you, Leese. Know why? 'Cause it doesn't serve me. We're both professional. We have the will and the means to follow through. 'Cause when we don't, our customers aren't happy. And when they're not, we suffer and our lives go to shit. And that's not going to happen. Is it?"_

He still focused on every move she made, in that lavatory especially. He had a tendency to fixate on the little things, like the defeated but sexy way she whispered "no" when he grabbed her chin and forced her to look into his eyes. The way she had to pause and fight for breath before she whispered it; that was where he was in his mind, instead of anxiously awaiting his flight to L.A whilst running his fingers over Isabella's skin.

At first it was easy, using the young co-worker as a replacement. She had no objections to him being rough with her and had agreed to role-playing wherever he pleased. She'd settled for that, didn't care that he once drunkenly took her against the back wall of a player's club, mumbling "I have to have you, Leese" as his hand slithered up her thigh. But his hands began to tighten, and he'd stopped calling her by her real name at all, even at work.

Jackson tried to ignore her low-keyed pants, soft expels of breath that didn't sound anywhere near as sexy as he'd remembered Lisa's to. His hand didn't dare go lower, the cigarette dangling between his lips making more ash than he could put out. Before the ash could fall to Isabella's shoulder though, he moved his arm and watched as an inch of his newest addiction broke off into the porcelain tray.

What was it that captivated him about Lisa? In the past year and a half (with the lawyer who'd somehow gotten him out of jail and the new business he'd started and the meaningless girls he'd fucked), he still couldn't pin-point why he was so attracted to her.

Isabella turned and slid into his chest, clutching his ribcage and burying her face into the warm contour of his chest. She kissed his skin through the cloth, knowing he was far too numb then to feel it. But it was the thought that counted. She looked up, hoping to see anything but what she saw. Anything. He simply sat there, drowning, his ocean eyes hard with the fury of tsunamis and midnight hurricanes. He stared straight through her, off into some distant place where the sheets and the bed, she and the frigid air didn't exist. Somewhere where he hadn't just claimed her body again. Somewhere she couldn't go. Somewhere she's wanted to travel since their first time together; somewhere with Lisa. Somewhere - somewhere else.

"I'm sorry..." the brunette whispered softly. He didn't move -- it didn't feel as though he was breathing, but she knew he was listening. His jaw tightened as he fought to stay in that somewhere else, cigarette back in his mouth as an excuse to avoid response.

Finally, she felt his ribs expand with shallow heaves, his chin lowered to rest on top of her head. His fists released and his hands moved to her back - his forearms enclosing around her. She was holding him. He was holding her. They were holding this moment, and this was moment falling away slowly, despite it all. A torrent of tears found her as he clutched her tighter, fighting to keep her staying with him, fighting to keep her staying Lisa. His Isabella, his Lisa, heard him sigh.

"Damned town," he huffed, "I hate this fucking town. Not a damned thing to do... except die." Die inside the ramshackle motels with faded floral wallpaper walls that would ignite and perish with the stroke of a single match. Die outside in the sweltering heat. Die waiting for Saturday to finally come. Die anyway he looked at it.

"Just die..." he said as he stubbed out his last cigarette in his palm and tossed the empty pack onto the night stand.

--------------------   
**MEANWHILE, IN MIAMI...**  
--------------------

Lisa was more than aware of the worried glances that were shot at her from across the room. Every time she looked up from her desk, Cynthia would sharply look the other way, but then slowly and inconspicuously raise those worried eyes back to her.

It was now happening every two minutes on the dot and mild amusement had long since ebbed into irritation. For about the twentieth time, Lisa peeked up and caught a glimpse of her concerned stare. And for the five millionth time since Jackson Rippner was out of her life, she found herself not wanting to talk to Cynthia. Not because she didn't like her- but because she was forever worried that she was still afraid and though she was, it didn't help to be reminded of the fact when she went to work every day.

Finally, Lisa enunciated in the nicest voice she was able to make, "I'm O-kay. Really."

Cynthia made a point of blushing and nodding, before dropping her pen and crossing over to the Lisa, holding a finger up to the arriving customer.

"Are you **sure**? I know it's been a year since..." she trailed off, letting the sentence die kind of like she wanted to when Lisa's eyes sharply raised. Wincing, she quickly added, "You don't have to talk about it if you want to. But I know you." She held up a warning finger. "You have that look on your face when you're thinking about something bad."

Lisa sighed and ran a hand through her light chestnut mane as she psyched herself up for the promising confrontation. "We'll talk about it tonight," she mumbled dejectedly, "You know what room I'm in."

Cynthia had to swallow about four times in order to attempt to lubricate her suddenly-dry throat. Was Lisa actually agreeing to open up again? For the first time in a while, she felt safe thinking that Lisa was going to tell her how she was really feeling. "Good." The redhead shot back a wide grin in response before returning to the front desk and exposing the same candied smile to the waiting customers.

"Can I help you?"

X-------------------------------------------------------X

Lisa rubbed the back of her neck, trying to relieve some of the stress that had manifested itself there.

"Coffee?" Offered Cynthia as she tumbled into the room, handing the girl a nondescript paper cup of steaming dark brown fluid. "I got it from the coffee machine," she continued nervously, approaching the shaken brunette and holding out the cup, gently breaking her from her reverie.

"Thank you..." Lisa mumbled softly, hands shaking as she accepted the drink and set it in her lap, forgetting its presence almost immediately.

"You're welcome," the co-worker whispered with a small, soft smile. Her hands fidgeted in front of her as she took a seat on the bed, about a few inches away from Lisa, nearly spilling her drink. She was almost too nervous to apologize, anxious to know what was on her mind. Well, other than the obvious.

Lisa blew into her cup in an attempt to cool the boiling liquid before hesitantly taking a sip. She winced as the scalding coffee poured over her tongue but forced herself to take another sip in hopes that she would get used to the bitter flavor. "I don't know where to start," was her first confession as she set the drink down on the stand.

"Well, we both know Jackson didn't... get arrested. Well, not for long..." the redhead offered, hoping to get things started.

"What if he comes looking for me?" Lisa blurted, the color leaving her face. Her eyes rose to Cynthia's, who's locked on hers with passion and admiration for her courage to speak up. "It's been almost a year, like you said. What if he comes back? I don't know where he's been, if he's alive, or if he's planning on coming back and..." she paused for breath, lowering her voice to a whisper. "I'm not sure I wouldn't be disappointed if he didn't."

The redhead's smile disappeared almost as quickly as her eyebrows raised. "_What_?" She couldn't have POSSIBLY heard her correctly. Who would want--?

In an attempt to remove further thoughts from her brain (or to take back what she'd said), Lisa shook her head and avoided eye contact.

It didn't work.

"He was so charming when I first met him..." she started, gazing longingly at the blankets in hopes that they would rise and envelope her completely. When they didn't, she continued. "I don't know. Some part of me still thinks that he could really be that charmer; I think he almost cared when I told him what happened two years ago."

Cynthia nodded sympathetically, carefully placing her hand over Lisa's, letting her know that she could continue. The warmth radiating from the other girl's skin almost made her want to move her hand, but at the same time she relished it.

The brunette rolled her eyes, even as she felt her heart pounding wildly in her chest. "Even though he hurt me and choked me and... almost killed my father..." Her voice was starting to die. "I'm sick, aren't I?" Her soft eyes brimmed with tears, and Cynthia was drowning in the sympathy.

"No, honey, you're not sick," she confirmed, hoping that statement would help in some way. "Maybe it's Stockholm Syndrome," she'd finally offered for an excuse. "Maybe you sympathize with him more than you thought." Cynthia smiled when the other girl's eyes finally found hers, still glassy.

Even for Cynthia, Lisa had to admit that was a nice excuse to pull out of her ass. It would've been convincing, had the part that her father almost died because of this asshole not been stabbing her in the heart.

"Alright. Let's say that I have this 'Syndrome'," Lisa offered. "What do I do?"

"That's up to you. You stay here and wonder if you want or you go out and find him if you want. Personally, and this is just in case he's not who you think he is, I think you should choose the first option. And don't let your sympathy get in the way of anything if he comes back."

Lisa nodded and picked up her coffee, instantly bringing the cup to her lips and draining it's cooled contents. "Why're you being so understanding?" she finally asked, a coffee mustache on her upper lip evident when she put the empty paper cup back on the stand.

Stifling a laugh, Cynthia cracked a smile. "Because I'm your friend."

The brunette wiped away the coffee-made mustache that had formed with a smile, becoming consumed in thoughts of her rugged ex-captor. How could she still want to see him? How could she even sympathize him when he--in big yellow lights--tried to murder her father? And not to mention, he almost killed her in the process. Lisa shuddered, mentally pushing the thought to the back of her mind. It made no sense.

Unable to stand the burden of her thoughts, Lisa finally began to explain (in wondrous whispers and broken sentences) what she thought attracted her to the man and what it was that attracted her.

"Just so we're clear, I'm not saying I completely want him to find me. In fact, I want him dead. Because if he finds me, he's undoubtedly going to kill me for probably permanently damaging his throat and stomach, in which case I'd have to grab Dad and run."

"Right."

"On the other hand, I wouldn't be one-hundred-percent objective to seeing him one last time, whether it be at a graveyard or not." Lisa confirmed, her hands balling into fists where they rest on her knees. "I just need closure. I need to know if he's dead or alive, and if he's alive I need to see him again before I.. I don't know, place a restraining order. It's not much, but I have a strong feeling that it'll help."

Cynthia didn't object, just nodded, flashing her pearly whites winningly. "I think you should head to bed; these thoughts have been in your mind all day. We both have the weekend off, and you can spend it with me. I'll even stay here with you, if you want."

Lisa accepted the offer and embraced the other girl tightly, smiling through a torrent of joyful tears as one mystery was finally solved. Undoubtedly in a way that she could've solved herself had she'd worked it out in her head and put aside her other confusing thoughts long enough to attempt to, but Cynthia had been the major help she always was nonetheless.

There was a rustle of bedspread as Cynthia settled into the bed next to Lisa's, smile set in place.

"Good night," she whispered, eyes slowly closing.

"Thanks for everything..." Lisa responded, slipping into unconsciousness.

TBC


	2. I'm Not Lisa

DISCLAIMER: I still don't own any of the characters you've seen in the movie. I own the other ones though!  
SPECIFIC CHAPTER WARNING: Bad language, roleplay, MAJOR angst, and sex. So if you aren't into that kind of thing, please don't read. And if you aren't into Jackson and Lisa as a couple, God only knows why you're reading the second chapter.  
SOMEWHAT-QUICK NOTE: From what I've gathered, Dallas is an hour behind Miami time-wise. Also, for those who need a better visual, I intended to make Isabella look like Patricia Barros. For anyone who read this when I first posted it, I changed Los Angeles to Dallas. And lastly, the roleplaying part in the chapter... I hate it half of the time and the other half I kind of like how it is, so if it sucks out loud, just tell me and I'll change that bit. It just doesn't seem to fit, yet at the same time it seems kind of passable. I dunno.  
CHAPTER SUMMARY: While Jack prepares himself for his trip to visit Lisa, Isabella begs him for one last time together. Meanwhile, Cynthia tries to help Lisa through her troubles by roleplaying.

Thanks for the reviews! Keep 'em coming, no matter the flavor.

Stockholm Syndrome: A Possible Fairytale  
**Chapter Two: I'm Not Lisa**

**Miami, Florida.  
10:33 AM.**

Slowly but surely, Lisa was turning into her father.

The past week had been hell for her, and she readily chose to ignore it--something since Joe had a heart attack she'd promised never to do. These personal demons were stored in her mind, not really creeping into her conscience as she prayed they would only exist in her slumber. Then again, she wished the past year had been a dream, but no matter how surreal the added events seemed, they happened. Two fingers delicately traced the small white scar on the right side of her forehead. Oh, they'd happened.

Since then, things have seemingly escalated for her. Lack of happiness, lack of concentration, lack of motivation to do anything productive, anything at all but to lie awake in fear and wonder. She sometimes wondered if she'd developed some sort of mental illness that she could blame her instability on. On and off she'd pulled that question back up to the front of her mind, though tossing it back into her memory storage after a few days of contemplation.

This morning it came back though, tapping on the insides of her eyelids as she awoke, for once, without a terrible headache. One look in Cynthia's direction put a smile on her face and an end to her worries; or at least pushed the thoughts to the back of her head again.

"Morning." She inhaled and instantly her stomach growled.

She'd been so lost in worry that she hadn't noticed the aroma of freshly-cooked food, or the sight of a dozen expensive plates overflowing with cinnamon buns, eggs, pancakes, biscuits and other such morning goods.

Cynthia approached Lisa's bed and smiled softly. "Morning," she returned. "Sleep well?"

"God, that was the best night I've had in years!" Lisa admitted with a laugh that Cynthia joined her in. "And how 'bout you? This food looks great, by the way," she said, rising from the bed and stretching. To her surprise, her usual back and stomach pains were absent. With a grin, she walked over to the set table, holding a plate in one hand and shoveling food onto it with the other.

Grinning, Cynthia joined her at the table. "I know! I slept pretty good..."

Surprisingly, the conversation ended there. There was nothing to discuss when their mouths were full; Cynthia was always the one to listen. She was used to being the friend who was all ears for the people needing to vent, to talk without any response back. Despite her social status, awkward silences still made her uneasy, and striking up a conversation--even with Lisa--was hard for her.

"You know," Lisa started, chewing half of a mouthful of scrambled eggs with a mystified look on her face. "I'm still unsure of what to do if he does show up." Before Cynthia could quantify the question, her best friend continued. "I just have this feeling that he's coming. It seems like something he would do, the bastard. Showing up on our technical anniversary."

Cynthia nearly dropped her fork, thankful for conversation, staring at Lisa incredulously. She looked as if she were about to say something harsh, but instead whispered, "I've got an idea."

Lisa looked up, startled by the intrusion. She'd honestly assumed Cynthia would criticize her or blather on about how wrong and dangerous he was (she need not be reminded, as she was worried enough) and was surprised that the redhead had sat down again. "Go on," she whispered, taken aback.

"How about we roleplay?" the redhead offered, grinning excitedly. "You can be Jackson so I can get a better idea of him and I'll be you. Once I get an understanding of him a little better, we'll switch."

Another sip of orange juice did nothing to soothe her tremulous thoughts as she stood up and moved towards the front door, motioning for Cynthia to follow. She couldn't deny that her interest was piqued, though.

"Okay," Lisa coughed, breathing in and out to prepare her for lowering her voice. "Hi, I'm Jackson and I'm a manipulative asshole." She finished with a smug smile.

X-------------------------------------------------------X

"Excited for your flight tomorrow?" Isabella asked him as she squirmed in to a tight, v-neck, micro-mini dress. "By the way, I got a call from Mick--Lisa's fine. She's still in the same location."

Jackson couldn't help but smile at the brunette, almost grin if it wasn't ingrained in his head since birth that he shouldn't express too much emotion unless forced. If he hadn't met Lisa, he'd definitely court Isabella--she could have sex without being attached and still keep most conversation work-oriented, she was the perfect assassin-a mix of intellect, sex appeal, and innocence, all good when drawing one in-and to face facts, she was the second most gorgeous woman he'd ever met. Hell, she was damned near perfect.

"Thanks, Lees---abella," he murmured, missing her slight wince as he stood and stretched. An audible groan was heard by Isabella across the room as his joints popped and ached, undoubtedly taking toll on his body for laying in the same place for so long. In truth, he could very well afford to stay at a nice hotel with a big, comfortable bed with Isabella. Hell, he could buy the damned place if he wanted to. But that was, in Jackson's opinion, where you took someone special. And though she held some sort of importance to him, he wasn't going to lead her on by fucking her in some fancy place like that. Even a criminal like himself knew that would be wrong.

He wore a perfect grin now. "I'm as excited as someone who was almost killed by someone he almost killed can be."

"Hmm. Then you must be miserable."

A soft chuckle of genuinely amused laughter erupted before Jackson continued. "Nah, I'm okay. I've got my voice, I've got these scars," he whispered cryptically, buttoning up his light blue collared shirt, the scar over his chest disappearing under the expensive fabric. "So long as I got both of these, I think she's gonna listen to what I have to say."

There was a longer pause this time before Isabella's face split with a rueful grin. "You really love her, don't you?"

Jackson's featured hardened, the grin disappearing. "Assassins don't fall in love," he whispered, barely audible, and cleared his throat as all of the air was sucked out of it, resisting the urge to breathe in again as his throat was constricted. There was no way he was in love, there was no way he was GOING to fall in love. Ever.

Isabella instinctively smiled sympathetically, wanting somehow to put the young man at ease as he paced back and forth, knowing his nerves were now close to, if not already, being shot. Jackson's eyebrows rose slightly at the gesture before a tiny smile tugged at the corners of his mouth in a grateful response.

All-business, Jackson squared his shoulders as he slid into his two-thousand-dollar Armani suit, feeling somehow completed now that his jacket matched his jet-black trousers.

"I hear we have a new client," Jackson started, steering his face into a blank look as his ocean eyes finally snapped into hers. "When am I set up to meet with her? By the way, have Mick give her my sincerest apologies for having to reschedule." He offered her a smile. "It's been a busy week."

X-------------------------------------------------------X

"I don't be-fucking-lieve it," Isabella laughed as she tumbled into the cold hotel room, almost drunkenly swaying towards the bed until it met her front, her laughter muffled by the cleaned bedspread.

"You've _said_ that," Jackson mumbled, letting the door slowly slide close rather than slamming it like he wanted to.

"Don't be so down, Jackson. We're being paid double to do the job early! We were already getting paid enough." She laughed. "In case you're drunk, that's a **very** good thing."

"So I have to cut the trip back to four days."

"I don't see the problem," Isabella half-lied, lifting her head and rolling onto her back to gaze at him curiously.

"The _problem_ is how the hell am I supposed to convince Lisa to fly up here with me in four days?"

"Well, you could kill her father. That always makes an impression."

"I'm serious," Jackson growled, sighing.

"So am I. Look, why the hell do you want her up here, anyway?" Isabella exploded, chocolate eyes making him feel much like a bug under a microscope with their accusing glare. "I thought the plan was you go up there, you fuck her, and then you come back? Isn't that what you said you wanted?"

Jackson blinked, pushing away the will to blush. So his plan was _that_ stupid? That simple? "Well, it's more complicated than that..." he started.

"No, it's not. When we first met and you told me everything, you told me the only time you would go back there is to sleep with her. And not even for pleasure, but just to prove that you could. There lies the challenge. There's no need to mix her with your new career. You've worked too hard for this, Rippner. Don't fuck it up."

There was an angry growl and an angrier squeal as Jackson pounced on top of Isabella, one hand holding both wrists crossed above her head and the other reaching for his pocket knife. Under him, Isabella fought to kick him off (not that she wanted him gone) out of reflex as he ripped open her top and there was suddenly a knife at her throat.

"Don't talk to me like you're the boss of this operation, Isabella."

She nodded weakly and gasped when the knife tore through the small piece of black lace holding her bra together.

Her mind seemed to shut off the second her eyes closed and it wasn't until she was completely naked beneath his body did she realize this was their last time together. Fighting the tears brimming her eyes, Isabella pressed her lips to his, trying to make this quick.

"I'm gonna take my time with you..." he murmured, sighing as he took his place between her parted thighs.

"No," Isabella shook beneath him. "Don't. Just fuck me."

"It's the least I could do..." he whispered as her hips sharply bucked up.

Their bodies met again with a harsh slap of skin, his rasp becoming more pronounced as he moaned "Isabella" when he could even form words at all. Her fingers traced the small dent of a scar on his neck and he didn't mind.

Isabella then shook her head, raking her cherry nails along the contour of his back. "It's not Isabella," she managed, voice quivering. "It's Lisa."

XXXXXX

**ENDING NOTES:** Right now I'm sure you all are wondering where I'm going with J wanting to drag L to his location. All will be revealed in due time. :) Apologies for the small and late update. : Oh, and double apologies for possibly making readers pity Isabella. I certainly feel bad for her. 

(Changed the title--thanks First Noelle!)


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